


finally

by wearegoingtodie



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Back at it again with the vent fics, Pretty Fucked Up, Self Harm, also written in a short amount of time, but based off some real experiences which maybe makes it worse, i should spend more time on these, somewhat description of noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28690416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearegoingtodie/pseuds/wearegoingtodie
Summary: a vent fic again but this time featuring my trauma yay
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	finally

Everything hurt. Sometimes, Ouma wondered if he’d done something horrible in a past life to deserve the pain he was dealt every day. Whether it was at school or home, his arms were painted in various shades of purple and blue and yellow and between the gaps of healing and fresh bruises were cigarette burns and cuts that bled a gorgeous red color. His legs always felt sore, covered in bite marks on his thighs and scuffs and bruises on his calves and more beautiful cuts on his ankles that seemed to blend together into one big purple-yellow-red mess that was both disgusting and the epitome of beauty itself. Humanity, Ouma decided, was disgustingly pretty. There was so much, even about him (especially about him), that was disgusting. The bruises and cuts that littered his tiny frame, the special bruises given to him on his thighs and neck, the way his chest was covered in bite marks and the way his frame wracked with sobs was a beautiful juxtaposition of the beauty of a human and the ugliness that came with it. Ouma wondered if this is what all the other kids at school, who kicked him and hit him and yelled at him saw. Did they see the beauty in his shaking legs and salty tears? Did they see the revolting personality that lay beneath those trembling thighs they’d force apart? Did they hear it, then, in his pleas and begs of ‘no’? Is that why they did it? To see him in his most true glory? To see him as he was intended to be? Is that why his parents would lock him away for hours at a time? Why is mother drank and drank and drank until she couldn’t see the world around her anymore and her words slurred into insults hurled at him? Why his father took and took from his small frame and yelled at him until he, too, was too drunk to see properly? To see Ouma tremble and flinch, his lip quiver and eyes fill with tears until his eyelashes brushed underneath his eye and they streamed down his face? To see the way Ouma would shiver and freeze and become near doll-like when they left him in the snow for too long? Surely...surely it was to see him in those positions. Those were the only positions he was beautiful in, after all. Those were the only moments he was good, where he was worth something, anything. At the mercy of his classmates, his parents, his teachers, anybody who came along. Ready and always willing to be hurt if need be, because that’s where and how he belonged. Maybe that’s why nobody told him those soft “I love you”’s that happen in movies. He wasn’t doing the only thing he was meant for correctly. (Of course he wasn’t. Ouma was useless, he knew.) So he’d taken to hurting himself even more to seem even more beautiful. He had taken silver and rusty-red blades to his legs and his arms and his neck and let the crimson blood flow in rivers until his eyesight faded at the edges and his breathing became labored, because he was beautiful like this. The way he shook with blood loss and his eyes seemed too heavy to open and the pain engulfed him fully was intoxicating, nearly as much so as receiving the pain from others. He began to carry knives everywhere, in case someone wanted to hurt him with them, rather than crushed glass or blunt objects, because these sharp edges made him all the more beautiful. He supposed that others thought so, too. Ouma was beautiful to them, all weakness and pained gasps and thick, coarse strands of hair glued to his forehead from blood. Trembling, too-skinny pale legs that knocked together when he fell down the stairs and sharp, jagged cuts that ran over him from head to toe, and they kept going. Ouma had never felt so in-place, so exhilarated. He was finally perfect-! Others finally loved him! He wasn’t totally worthless!

The corpse of a second-year high school student was found. Cause of death: blood loss. The injuries were most consistent with knife cuts. The student has been identified as Kokichi Ouma.


End file.
